


L'intérieur du Désespoir - The Interior of Despair

by PariahSentToSave



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angels, Angst, Death, F/M, Forbidden Love, French Revolution, Homosexuality, Lies, Like four people live, M/M, Murder, Names have been changed to French variations, Pining, Reincarnation, So many lies, Soulmates, blood in the streets, french words, glossary in the notes, quotes from Les Miserables, victor is not an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PariahSentToSave/pseuds/PariahSentToSave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and friends become part of the Revolution of 1832.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dénonçant la Famille

Sherlock

 

Mycroft called them riots. I called them beautiful. Men, women, children, innocents, revolutionaries massing in the streets, fighting and dying for a lost, chaotic cause. Rallies sprung up left and right, like heads of Iliadic hydras. The second _les_ _militaire_ struck them down, another would rise.

 

Mycroft tried to shelter me, especially the summer of 1832, so, of course, that was the summer I joined the revolution. I wanted to be a part. I wanted to burn brightly like Biela’s Comet. I wanted something to live for, something to keep my mind from rebelling at the stagnation of a comfortable life. I found it in a small group of students. It was the leaders that caught my eye. Two blondes, one tall and fair, the other short and strong. Both were beautiful and imposing, though I could never have either. I could not face that kind of shame. The taller had an air of mystery and hidden power. His voice carried through the _parc de la_ _ville_ like it was made of wind and war cries, as if he wanted the world to join his war.

“We fight for bread while the swine above live in peace and plenty! While we bleed for the right to survive this plague, this poverty, the king sits and watches, eating chocolate and gold! They call that equality!” He shouted, his fist raised in the air, a call to arms. The shorter man’s brow furrowed in anger as he turned to point a finger at the house behind him, yelling, “The king has medicine, and yet he chooses to keep it for himself! General Lamarque is ill, said to die within days! We will lose our only protector to the king’s selfishness! They call that equality!” He looked not at the house, but at the crowd. His words were meant to stir anger, I realized. If not for the rage burning inside him, he would have made a fine soldier, a general to the greatest armies.

I pushed my way through the crowd, trying to get a better look at the angry voice of a man. Even though I was tall for my seventeen years, I found it difficult to see above the heads and raised hands. After a moment of struggle, I broke through to the front lines, my breath catching in my throat as I finally saw them. The taller had a young girl perched on his shoulders, her own small fist raised in triumphant anger. The shorter held a sheaf of _brochures_ , handing them to people. Our fingers touched as I reached out, sending a shock through my entire arm.

“Death to the King! Liberty for France!” the young girl, clearly a sibling of one of the leaders, yelled, her voice shrill and eager. I ducked behind a man, only a few years older than I, hiding myself from view of the nearby carriages. My mind raced wildly, even faster than my pounding heart. I was absolutely, completely, and entirely enthralled. I could join. I could escape the stifling serenity of my life and join one where I could be free to do as I please. I ran a shaking hand through my hair, freeing it from the pins which kept unruly curls down and tidy. I would never gain anyone’s trust looking so bourgeois. I would have to find new clothing and lodging, as well. I had pocket money, enough for _un appartement_.

A shock of panic welled up inside me as a hand enclosed around my elbow. Mycroft had actually left his carriage to find me in the crowd. “William!” he reprimanded, his face contorted with fury. “How dare you shame our family! Father is furious! He’s blaming me, you’re tearing everything apart! You’re coming home!” I wasn’t. There was no way I could go, now that I’d found a reason to live. I wrenched my arm away, shaking my head. I couldn’t speak, afraid that if I did, my voice would betray my _pédérastie_. “You denounce us,” Mycroft breathed, his eyes wide. I’d spoken of leaving the family name, of leaving behind the politics and rules and expectations. He’d never dared to believe me.

“Leave,” I finally ordered, as if I’d already forgotten the days we spent as children, playing and reading, the days when Mycroft had appeared to me as a minor god, when he had parented me and attempted to calm my furies and my demons and my blackest of moods. I backed away, shaking my head. He could no longer be my brother. He could no longer hide and protect me. He could no longer shelter me against the war of le mendiant. I looked back up at the two men and the child of their revolution, my decision ultimately decided. I would make this my fight. It would remain my fight until I won or died. Mycroft could no doubt see it. His pain could no longer matter to me.

“ _La police est ici! Fuyez! C’est Moran_!” The girl screeched, sending the crowd into a panic. I’d heard the name. Inspector Sebastian Moran. Ruthless, horrifying, cruel. Just, as well, but only in his own eyes. I glanced one last time at my brother before slipping through the crowds and into the nearest building. Apartments. On a whim, I sought out the landlord, paying two months rent. I could live here, easily, if I worked translating or making boxes. I knew English, having been born in London. I had papers, no foreman would deny me. Sitting on the dreary bed in my new room, smaller than even a servant’s quarters, I swore an oath. I would join the _révolution_.


	2. Squelettes et Soldats, les Anges et les Innocents

John

I had no idea how the others managed to balance school, work, and planning the new crusade of beggars and students alike. A few even kept relationships. I never had a choice. Between working, school, planning, and Harriet, my sister, I had no time or money for love. The closest I came was Marie, the girl who housed us, sharing a few chaste kisses stolen in moonlight long after we should have been asleep.

Rallies and riots became my life when I could no longer afford school. Once, I might have joined _l'armée_ , but in these harrowing times, the thought made me sick. Even if it didn’t, I was the only thing keeping Harriet from _la maison de correction_ and Marie from _les quais_. I couldn’t abandon them to that desolate misery so many others already bowed down to. They were my charges, mine to protect.

I met Victor the winter of 1830, and from that moment on, we were _frères d'armes_ , the most unlikely of any friends. More than once, he offered to pay for rent or food, but I declined unless Harriet ran the risk of starving. A year later, we had gathered a small group of friends, all rearing for a call to arms. Marie joined us when Jeannine did, even though neither wanted to fight. Marie was the quieter of the two, small, blonde, and unassuming. Jeannine was an Irish girl, full of fire and wit. Iréne, however, was _une belle catastrophe_. She was so sure of herself in ways I would never be, unafraid to wield a weapon, and a lover of fire and the way it burned down everything in its path. Michel was a heavy drinker with short, dark waves, his weight making him appear slow and unsteady. I’d seen him outrun Inspector Moran three times. He had a friendly nature that he couldn’t hide, even in times of trouble and suspicion. Sébastien was _impoli et sarrasins_ , but he was loyal. He was one of the wealthy _révolutionnaires_ like Victor and Jeannine. Molly was a Jewish girl, a nonviolent preacher of equality. Small and mousy, no officier had ever been able to bring himself to arrest her for spreading propaganda. She was out almost every night, passing out _brochures_ to anyone who passed. She was by far the most innocent of all of us. We were a diverse group, many of us first or second generation _français_ , including myself, Harriet, and Jeannine, but Victor was willing to fight alongside anyone willing to wield a rifle. I found respect in that.

Harriet was a favorite during meetings, a perfect example of the youth of “our” France. She wanted to fight, and Victor couldn’t be more pleased. He taught her how to shoot, how to load and clean guns, and how to stitch wounds, all with the intention of having her with us when we finally made battle. He didn’t care that she wasn’t yet ten. She was a potential soldier in his eyes. Everyone was.

It wasn’t until May of 1832 that anything changed. The rallies, the riots, everything bled together until I saw Him. Pale face, dark hair that surrounded him like an inky halo, lips that should belong to a girl. He was tall, thin enough to look like _un squelette_ , though his face was that of _un ange de Dieu_. I forced myself to look away as he was joined by a heavier male that could only be a relative. My heart sunk to my feet. It could never be. I couldn’t risk Harriet like that. I couldn’t risk _la révolte_.

My heart was thrown back up into my throat as Harriet screamed, the crowd scattering like birds. Victor tossed her to me, and together, we ran. I forced all thought of l’ange squelettique from my mind, focusing instead on the small hand clutched in my own. We made for Marie’s, Victor’s footsteps pounding after us. La _sécurité en chiffres_. Ha.

By the time we reached the desolate little house, the noise of the city had died down, and night had begun to fall. Victor saw us to the door and disappeared into the darkness, calling out, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the ABC!”

I would look for _l’ange squelettique_ tomorrow, ask him to join our cause. The thought of harm coming to his alabaster visage, to his youthful innocence, made my stomach churn like it did when I thought of Harriet’s willingness to fight, but I could protect them. I would protect them.

**  
**I was still uneasy when I settled down for the night in the _hamac_ that hung in the corner, Harriet and Marie already asleep on the pathetic mattress beneath the window. I could still remember his face as clearly as my own. I had no idea who he was, and yet I felt compelled to draw him away from whatever dark ledge he stood at. It made no sense to me, and yet, it made all the sense in the world. All I know is that I was not alive until today, and I would fight to the ends of the Earth to keep this fiery spark of a life alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squelettes et Soldats, les Anges et les Innocents -Skeletons and Soldiers, Angels and Innocents  
> l'armée- the army  
> la maison de correction- workhouse  
> les quais- the docks  
> frères d'armes- brothers in arms  
> une belle catastrophe- a beautiful disaster  
> impoli et sarrasins- rude and brash  
> révolutionnaires- revolutionaries  
> officier- officer  
> brochures- pamphlets  
> français- French  
> un squelette- a skeleton  
> un ange de Dieu- an angel of God  
> la révolte- the revolt  
> l’ange squelettique- the skeletal angel  
> La sécurité en chiffres- Safety in numbers  
> hamac- hammock


	3. Des Opéras et de la Guerre

“The blood of the people stirs at long last! Our voices rise, and so shall our barricades! We need a sign, something to finalize our war!” So many faces, so many vacant expressions. Not a single one was angry enough. I cast my gaze over the small crowd, scowling darkly. A sign would come, and we must be ready when it does. I feared we would not be. I did not fear death, no. _Échec était bien pire_.

 

I found myself relaxing slightly as the slow, steady footsteps of the only man with any sense became audible. The room went silent as John entered, for once, without Harriet. My mouth tilted into an approximation of a smile. “You’re late, I informed coldly, reaching over to snatch the newest bottle of wine Michel opened, glaring down at him. Now was not the time for drinking, he knew that.

  
“What’s wrong today?” Iréne asked, grinning wildly as she let her feet rest on the table. Only she could make the rudeness seem lady-like. “ _Avez-vous vu un fantôme_?” She cackled as John lowered himself into a chair next to her, laughing softly.

 

“A ghost? Maybe. I don’t know. One minute there, gone the next!” He ran a hand over his face, ignoring Marie’s devastated watch. I didn’t blame either of them. Irene giggled, snatching the wine bottle from my hand, drinking straight from it.

“Look at you, falling in love while Victor plans a war to shame Napoleon! An opera could not perform a better story!” Irene raised the bottle, grinning at the laughter that rang out through the café, grating against my ears. I slammed my hands on the tabletop, bringing silence once again.

 

“Who cares about operas? Is this what we fight for now? To go see foolish _acteurs_ on foolish _étapes_? We risk our lives, for what cause? Love? No! We are fighting to better France, not our lonely little lives! No one cares for an aching heart when lives are at stake, and at stake they are!”

 

John stood, some _courroux_ finally showing on his face, abolishing the giddy grin of the enamored. “What does it matter, our reasoning? We fight, we die, all the same! Why not wonder after a stranger? Why not fall in love again and again? Who can stop us?”

I turned away, brushing Irene aside as she stood, her eyes darting between John and myself. I did not bother to take her wine, though my heart sank for her fate. She could not be saved. She was not part of this _polémique_. John was my charge now, my battle before the war.

******  
**

“Who cares if they can stop us? There are more important things that threaten to spill our blood! If we are not wholly focused, it will all be for naught! We will be completely outnumbered! Will your love save you then? Will it save any of us?”

Silence fell. He knew I was right, I could see it in his face. I looked back over the room, spotting someone I hadn’t seen before in my life. A man with angelically curled hair, a stained shirt and jacket, and a tattered red flag held in one hand watched me from the corner table, watching me solemnly. I blinked, and he was gone. He was one of us, I was sure of it. The badge on his jacket matched my own. There one moment, and gone the next.

Perhaps John, too, had seen _un fantôme de la république_. Some woman caught in the crossfire of a revolution. I could judge him no longer.

 

I was torn from my wonderings by a shrill outcry, the rainy face of Harriet rising above everyone as she clambered onto a table. “ _Général Lamarque est mort_!” Silence fell again. exhilarated and afraid.

“His death is the sign we await! His funeral is our opportunity! Barricades and men alike will rise up like the sun! We will call, and Paris will answer!” I looked back over the room, something deep inside me cowering in fear as I saw the flag the _fantôme_ had been holding now sitting in a heap on the table.

 

Long live the revolution. Long live our deaths. May they be glorious and remarkable. Let us be remembered. Let us not become like the _fantôme_ , lost in time and memory.

 

 

****  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Échec était bien pire- Failure was much worse  
> Avez-vous vu un fantôme?- Have you seen a ghost?  
> acteurs- actors  
> étapes- stages  
> courroux- anger  
> polémique- controversy  
> un fantôme de la république- a ghost of the republic  
> Général Lamarque est mort- General Lamarque is dead  
> fantôme- ghost

**Author's Note:**

> -Dénonçant la Famille- Denouncing the Family  
> -les militaire- the military  
> -parc de la ville- city park  
> -brochures- pamphlets  
> -un appartement- an apartment  
> -pédérastie- pederasty (homosexuality)  
> -le mendiant- the beggars  
> -La police est ici! Fuyez! C’est Moran!- The police are here! Run away! It’s Moran!  
> -révolution- revolution


End file.
